Flying Towards Destiny
by vanillafluffy
Summary: Ardeth Bey and Jonathan Carnahan have little in common, but the phrase Opposites Attract was coined for a reason. Slash! Chapter Nine up. When he interupts a conversation, Alex is put on the spot.
1. Opposites Attract

"The Mummy Returns" is probably my favorite sequel, ever. Then somebody threw this slashy little plot bunny in my lap, and when I went back and watched it again, there was **subtext. **I couldn't resist such an interesting pairing. So here we are. Mild slash and hurt-comfort ahead.

I own the DVD, not the rights. I'm not making a profit from this. Etcetera...

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* * *

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**Flying Towards Destiny**

"Why can't you people ever keep your feet on the ground?" grumbles Ardeth Bey. He understands the need for swift travel, but that doesn't mean he willingly boards the airship. He's a bit surprised, then, when Evie's brother Jonathan chuckles. Ardeth's kept his distance from the man during their journey from England; that insane stunt with the bus in London didn't endear Evie O'Connell's brother to him in the least.

"I'm with you there, old man," Jonathan confides to Ardeth as they climb aboard. "The dratted bus was bad enough, without going aloft like some cut-rate Icarus."

"May I remind you that you were driving the bus?" There's an edge to his voice; Ardeth hopes he will never have to endure such a conveyance again.

"Not because I had any choice in the matter! I can't help it that the key to my brother-in-law's motor car was so poorly made."

O'Connell overhears this as he helps Evelyn over the rail. "You broke it, Jonathan."

"Perhaps I didn't know my own strength," retorts the Englishman, and despite himself, Ardeth's gaze is drawn to Jonathan's hands, smooth hands, that have seldom, if ever, known an honest day's work. He wonders that Rick and Evie are willing to place their lives, and perhaps their son's life, in such helpless hands.

When Izzy cuts the mooring rope and they soar skyward, Ardeth clenches his teeth. Telling himself that this is part of his sworn duty as a Medjai is of little comfort. While his faith is dear to him, he knows that faith means nothing if Fate intervenes.

Below them, the desert is orange in the glow of the setting sun. Evie has gone to stand at the prow of the airship, and Rick O'Connell is inspecting his weapons. Jonathan has taken a seat just below the platform where their captain stands, and Ardeth joins him. He doesn't want to move about too much on this strange boat; it may become unbalanced and spill them out.

* * *

When the Medjai sits down beside him, Jonathan Carnahan feels his stomach knot up. The desert warrior isn't like anyone else he's ever known---the tattoos on his face are so primitive, barbaric, really---yet he speaks perfect, cultured English. Jonathan has watched him fight, seen him kill numerous beings, human and undead alike...and witnessed him sitting with Evie and Rick and offering words of comfort about the loss of Alex. When they first encountered him at Hamunaptra, Jonathan thought he was fierce and frightening. Now, Ardeth Bey no longer seems quite so frightening, but there is something about him, some inner passion that is unsettling to be around. 

The man makes him distinctly uncomfortable, but they seem to share a dislike for this peculiar means of transport. Bey sits rigidly, as if he believes the slightest movement will upset their air-bourne applecart.

"Tell me more about this Ahm Shere place," Jonathan requests, thinking that telling a story will set Bey at ease and perhaps make the journey go faster.

"It is written that there is a vast green valley, surrounded on all sides by cliffs and desert," the other man begins, and Jonathan settles back to listen to the tale.

A golden pyramid housing a temple to the Scorpion King, a great diamond at its peak, great wealth and terrible danger...it's thrilling, like the best bedtime stories he's ever been told all rolled into one, and he gives Ardeth's voice his rapt attention. The flow of words is compelling; Jonathan sits motionless as the Medjai talks to him, lightly stroking the bird perched upon his arm---his hawk, Jonathan corrects himself. Horus is a bird of prey---much as his master is.

His focus shifts a bit when Bey begins talking about Rick's role in the unfolding events. "O'Connell does not want to believe. He flies like Horus towards his destiny."

Jonathan doesn't want to hear about Rick. Evie's husband is dull, Ardeth can't possibly find anything about Rick fascinting enough to use that intense tone of voice. He wants to hear more about the riches of Ahm Shere. "Yes, yes. Very interesting. Tell me some more about this gold pyramid."

"Well, it is written that since the time of the Scorpion King, no man has ever laid eyes on it and lived to tell the tale."

"Where is all this stuff written?" Jonathan asks, half in jest. Ardeth Bey does not give the impression of a man who spends a great deal of time locked away with books. He's much too physical for that. The thought brings with it such an unfamiliar wave of emotion that Jonathan flinches away from it, and in doing so, his hand encounters something he thought he'd packed safely away.

* * *

"Pretty nice, eh?" says Carnahan, holding up a golden scepter with the air of a man doing a conjuring trick. "This is all I have in the world. The rest of my fortune was lost---to some rather unscrupulous characters, actually." 

Ardeth can well believe that. There's something curiously naive about the Englishman. He's a grown man, but his heart is boyish, decides the Medjai, as his hands lightly soothe Horus. Jonathan's attentiveness to Ardeth's account of the Scorpion King makes Bey feel quite the poet, although he knows his own gifts as such are modest. "If the curator reacted to it the way you say, it must be very important."

Jonathan seems to straighten up a little at that, proud of his possession. How sad if that is all the man has to base his life upon. Is there nothing else he can take pride in? "If I were you, I'd keep it close," Ardeth advises him. It can hardly go very far, unless someone drops it over the side.

"My friend, the gods couldn't take this away from me!" For a moment, Ardeth feels a mischievous urge to offer Jonathan his protection, chuckling as the captain snatches the scepter from Jonathan's hands and glares at him.

"You can look at it, but be careful," Jonathan admonishes Izzy. "It's very important."

Ardeth can feel himself smiling. He's watched the man play the buffoon time and again, but Jonathan still retains a curious dignity, as if the clown is merely a mask he shows the world. His blue eyes are guileless as he turns back towards Ardeth, who doesn't doubt that Jonathan will have regained his possession by the time they reach Ahm Shere.

* * *

They have reached the edge of the valley, and Ardeth offers thanks to God for their survival after the tumultuous end to their journey. Imhotep's magic brought their airship down with a great wave that pursued them, and the irony that he, a desert-dweller faced death from an abundence of water does not elude him. 

Death still lurks. It comes with a sharp report that brings down Horus, and Ardeth Bey grieves silently for his feathered friend.

The green lushness of the jungle is foreign to him, and its stillness is disquieting, all the more so because he feels himself being watched. O'Connell and his wife are concerned for their son, which is understandable, and seem far more concerned with catching up to Alex and his captors than scouting the area.

Jonathan appears oblivious to the atmosphere, as usual. He's standing a few paces away from them, and suddenly exclaims, "My word! I say, chaps, look at this! Shrunken heads!" That catches everyone's attention. "I'd love to know how they do that."

O'Connell rolls his eyes, and Evie gives a little grimace of disgust, but Ardeth manages to keep the spontaneous grin from his face. "Just curious," Jonathan says, shrugging. It's another demonstration of that boyish quality he has, which Ardeth finds oddly endearing. He's a grown man, and yet, he has such enthusiasm for the mysteries and curiosities of the world. There is something about having such a light-hearted companion that makes such a journey less arduous.

Abandoning the grisly relics, Jonathan thrusts his torch into the sand and takes up one of the rifles from their portable armory. "Are you any good with that?" inquires Ardeth. The Englishman often seems ungainly, but he holds the rifle as if familiar with its use.

"Three times Fox and Hounds Grand Champion, I'll have you know!"

Ardeth manages a controlled smile and nods, forbearing to point out that neither foxes nor hounds are likely to shoot back.

* * *

"Are you any good with that?" Jonathan asks, gesturing to the sword Ardeth Bey wears. It's a perfectly reasonable question, he thinks, given that the man's just questioned his own competence. 

"We'll know soon enough," says Bey casually---and with a movement so swift that Jonathan Carnahan can barely comprehend it, he's drawn the sword and its blade rests against Jonathan's throat. "Because the only way to kill an Anubis warrior is by taking off its head."

"I'll remember that," Jonathan gasps. His heart is pounding; the steel against the side of his neck makes the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. Ardeth stares at him, dark eyes intent. It's frightening, and at the same time, he feels intoxicated by the nearness of danger, and Jonathan isn't quite thinking clearly or he wouldn't stand a little straighter at that particular moment. He doesn't feel the sharp edge cut him, only the sudden warmth as blood trickles down his collarbone.

The Medjai hisses and lifts the sword away. Jonathan fishes a nearly clean handkerchief from his pocket, and the other man plucks it from his hand to staunch the flow. Ardeth daubs tentatively at the blood, then presses the square of linen to the wound, standing by Jonathan's side with scant inches between them. "It's just a scratch," he murmurs to Jonathan, who inhales the scent of sweat and horses and exotic spices as if it's a tonic. The fingers against his neck burn like a brand.

The confusion buffeting Jonathan has nothing to do with his slight wound. Ardeth radiates heat as if he holds the warmth of the desert itself. His eyes are dark embers in the torchlight, and Jonathan is mesmerized by the intensity of his gaze. He's aware of his own reaction to all this, a baffling, shocking reaction: his cock is hard, and he finds himself wanting to rub himself against Ardeth like a cat.

"When someone holds a blade to your throat, you would do well to remain quite still," Ardeth tells him quietly. The low rumble of his voice makes Jonathan's erection dance in response. On the surface, it's sound, sensible advice, but in Jonathan's unsettled state of mind, it conjures up turbulent images of being menaced and overpowered and Ardeth Bey is far too close, far too intimate.

"I'll remember that," Jonathan says, his voice gone hoarse with a desire he can't possibly confess. Before he can stop himself, his hand reaches up and covers Ardeth's as it holds the swatch of linen to his neck.

"Remember this," Ardeth replies, and brings his mouth down to cover Jonathan's for one breathless moment. There's scant time to react, to respond...only a few seconds that signal a change of heart, as if each beat was some immense jungle drum, pounding: Ar-deth, Ar-deth...

When Bey takes a step back, the warmth goes with him, and Jonathan feels a sense of loss, as if the sun has winked out. Rick and Evie are kissing, having completely missed this extraordinary event in their proximity. Ardeth rejoins the others, and Jonathan stands there, at a loss.

Remember it? It's unforgettable.

* * *

Rick and Ardeth have gone ahead, trying to rescue Alex from Imhotep's entourage. Jonathan watches from the rise above them as they converge on the other party at an oblique angle. The rifle in his hands is oily where his hands grip it. He is trying very hard to concentrate on the matter at hand; Jonathan knows that unless he puts that singular moment behind him for now, there may never be another. 

"Jonathan...?" Evie's voice breaks into the melee of his thoughts. "That's my husband and my son down there." He glances over at her. That's not all that's down there. "Make me proud."

Jonathan Carnahan raises the walnut rifle-stock to his shoulder. "Today's that day, Evie."

Imhotep's forces are bearing torches; he soon learns to aim a couple feet below the flames, and not to look directly at bright flickering lest it interfere with his night vision. Ardeth is easy to track; the flashes from the Thompson's muzzle are distinctive, and Jonathan is keeping an eye out for him. Evie seems to be doing the same for Rick, and her brother is startled to realize that, rather than being merely the ones kept from harm's way, they're doing a good job of covering their infiltrators.

Alex's shouts of "Dad! Dad!" draw Rick and Ardeth in that direction. The dark-haired man stalks his prey in the verdant oasis; the Thompson's fire has ceased. As a hostile soldier drops without a sound, Jonathan sees the twinkle of a blade in the firelight. Ardeth doesn't seem to be having any difficulty doing what's necessary, and Jonathan picks off one of the red-robed figures almost absently, trying to see what's happening with his friend. There's a skirmish---Ardith is fighting a giant of a man---the ring of steel on steel is audible even from this distance, but Jonathan doesn't have a clear shot.

For one heart-stopping moment, he thinks Ardeth is down, but then there's a dark blur, and the giant is being driven back. He falls, but the Medjai clearly doesn't see the other man approaching from the rear with a gun. Jonathan lines up his shot---this is no time to get careless, he tells himself---squeezing the trigger and holding his breath for an anxious moment before the crimson figure crumples to the ground. For an instant, Ardeth's eyes meet his.

That answers that question, thinks Jonathan with a wild sense of triumph.

"Let's go!" Evie barks as Rick sprints into the clearing, Alex over his shoulder.

Ardeth has faded into the jungle, probably on the way to report to his chieftains. "Thank god for that!" Jonathan breathes. Now, if they can just both manage to survive the next day or so, perhaps they can...compare notes on this adventure of theirs.

* * *

Once he has kept his word and made sure that Alex O'Connell is safe, Ardeth Bey makes his way back to the Medjai's encampment. He details the situation, and guides his troops rapidly back toward Ahm Shere. The hours spent in the saddle give him time to think. Why did he kiss the Englishman? Ardeth chastises himself. His desire for the other man has caused him to shed his habitual prudence. Between nearly taking the man's head off and then kissing him, he'd be surprised if Jonathan Carnahan doesn't flee at the sight of him when next they meet. And yet, the fellow did save his life... 

If they meet again, Bey reminds himself. There are no certainties in life, and as much as he would like to discuss his inexplicable attraction with its quarry, he accepts reluctantly that it may never happen.

Their forces beat back the first company of undead, but he fears in his heart that there is worse to come...and it is so. The creatures cover the dunes, out-numbering them by such a vast quantity that Ardeth Bey knows his final hour has come. How many will fall to his blade? A dozen? Twenty? Fifty---if he is truly under the protection of God---but there are far too many of them. If he had ten times the men he leads now, it would still not be enough.

As the torrent of fiends pour toward them, a carpet of darkness upon the sands, as far as he can see, he laments that his friends have surely entered the gates of Paradise. Soon, he will join them. His knuckles white on the handle of his sword, Ardeth faces the onrushing enemy with a defiant challenge: "Til death!" he shouts, and the Medjai around him echo the cry.

The vile warriors of Anubis are upon them, scarcely an arm's length away, when suddenly the air is thick with black dirt. A gust of putrid wind sweeps over them, and reflexively, Ardeth raises his left arm to shield his eyes against the foulness. When he lifts his face again, he beholds an empty plain.

The hordes of undead have vanished; they are saved. Lowering his sword, he gives a wordless cry, a prayer of thanks that his fellows take up, their joyful ululations soaring to the heavens.

The cloud of stinking evil disappears over the ridge into the Ahm Shere valley, and Bey does not know whether to rejoice or to worry anew. There is a shock-wave, making the ground tremble beneath them, and then the darkness rises, taking the shape of a face. Then it, too, disappears, and in the distance he hears a terrible sound, a rushing wind that seems to be tearing the world apart, yet the ground where they stand is undisturbed.

"I must see what's happening in the oasis," he says to his second in command. "Sanjay, you are in charge."

Swinging into the saddle, Ardeth spurs his mount toward the distant vantage point. Then, above the rift, a familiar shape appears, and he recognizes Izzy's airship. He reins in the stallion and waits, focusing on the gondola high above him. He sees Rick and Evie, side by side, the gilt shimmer of Alex's fair hair, and nearby, another figure who waves at him, exhaustion plainly visible even from this distance.

Lifting his hand to return their greeting, Ardeth wheels the stallion, who rears and prances beneath him. How long will it take him to return to Cairo? he wonders. There are no certainties in life, but sometimes there are second chances.

**To be continued...**


	2. Fight in the Souk

I was persuaded to continue this, and will post as other projects permit. It's gonna get slashier, and the rating will probably go up. Meanwhile, somebody who's good at getting into trouble is about to get into trouble. Fancy that!

* * *

The market in the Old Quarter of Cairo is a fascinating place, and Jonathan Carnahan ambles through the crowd, glancing at the wares displayed by the vendors. He can find everything from olives and dates to earthenware crockery or engraved brass coffee pots that twinkle in the sunlight...that does him no good, since he has no money. His brother-in-law has confiscated the great diamond of Ahm Shere, his golden scepter was lost with the Scorpion King, and Jonathan has only a few insignificant trinkets that he hopes to find a buyer for. Then, perhaps he can carry out the plans he's been formulating since their return from the lost oasis two days ago.

He's acquainted with a dealer in antiquities down one of the narrow side streets, and Jonathan smooths his garments and leaves the souk behind. Yesterday, he traded a worn jacket and pair of boots for the traditional native robe and headdress so that he would blend in better with the locals...he's not trying to pass as one of them, but this way, if Evie or Rick should come looking for him, he'll stand out less in a crowd.

"Inglizi!" growls a voice behind him, and oh, this isn't good. There are four of them, two with knives, and he has no baksheesh to give them. Jonathan blinks, eyes darting around to see if there's anything nearby that he can use to defend himself with. An awning pole, maybe?

"I'm awfully sorry to bother you, chaps," he says, giving them his best wide-eyed and gormless look, "but I seem to be lost. Which way to the Cairo Museum?"

One of them says something that sounds rude. Jonathan smiles at them, then jumps to the nearest doorway and seizes one of the long rods that shore up the canvas canopy over the entryway. He tries to pull it out of the bracket, but it's stuck fast. The thugs are laughing so hard that Jonathan thinks he might as well try to make a break for it, then the pole comes free.

Unfortunately, it's still lashed to the canopy at the top; it's at a very awkward angle so he can't wave it menacingly at the men threatening him. He tries, but one of them dodges around it and lands a punch to the side of the head that makes him drop the pole. The ragged canvas sags, tenting him and the bandit against the plaster of the house. Jonathan tries to punch him back, but the man's head bobs, and Jonathan's knuckes scrape against the wall.

An old man with a snowy white beard bursts out of the doorway and begins shouting at them---probably none too chuffed about his awning---and Jonathan takes another punch, this time grazing his chin. The homeowner ducks back inside when one of the thieves steps under the side of the canopy that's flapping like a sail. He's brandishing a knife, and Jonathan tries to open the door of the house, but it's been barred from the inside. The only way out is under the awning, which is heavy and reeks of birdshit. Jonathan takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and charges ahead.

Another thief is standing there, and Jonathan bounces off him. He staggers backward, and hears the oof! of breath being driven out of the man on the other side of the canvas. The man he collided with swings on him, blade in hand, and Jonathan throws himself to one side, tumbling to the dusty ground and rolling away from the melee. The knife sinks into the theif beneath the awning, who shrieks. That's sufficient to rattle the knife-wielder, who pulls the bloodied blade loose, and promply drops it.

The fourth thief is scuffling with someone in black robes, and the man who just stabbed his own cohort hesitates, then flees, running past Jonathan, who picks himself up, dazed. He kicks the knife away, disgusted. The other armed thug is going to the aid of the injured man, and the fourth thief slams head first against the wall on the far side of the passageway and drops to the ground, unconscious. Jonathan stares at his rescuer; it's Ardeth Bey.

The wounded man is holding his side, and being supported by his friend, who's waving his knife and edging away from the scene of battle. Ardeth's comment as the two shuffle away sounds scathing.

For a moment, Jonathan can't breathe. Part of it is the exertion of the fight, but most of it is seeing Ardeth again. "I say," he begins---then there's the scrape of the door being opened, and the old man comes back out with a sword.

The homeowner looks at the red-stained slit in the grimy canvas, the fallen man on the other side of the alley, and his eyes narrow when he sees who's left. He says something angry. Ardeth sheaths his own sword, and lifts the dragging awning pole, replacing it in the bracket. The old man makes another comment, not as mad this time, and Ardeth smiles and tosses him a silver coin. The old man looks much happier now---he can probably buy three new canopies with that much money---and goes back into his house without another word.

Then the Medjai turns to Jonathan. "Shall we find more congenial surroundings?" he suggests, and Jonathan nods, following him deeper into the Old Quarter.


	3. The Silken Palace

At first, Jonathan thinks they are going back to Sheppard's Hotel, where the O'Connells are staying, but soon they turn from the main boulevard and wend their way into what Jonathan recognizes as one of Cairo's better districts. They enter the well-tended garden of a palatial house---palatial by Egyptian standards, anyway---via a narrow gate in the back wall. There's a loggia on two sides, and a well. His companion draws a vessel of water, and turns to him with a smile.

"I wanted to return this to you," remarks Ardeth, pulling a square of white linen from his robes. It's like watching a conjuror do a magic trick, and Jonathan stares, belatedly realizing that that's his handkerchief. He blushes, remembering how Ardeth obtained it.

The cool water feels good against the scrapes on his face. The Englishman sighs and yields to Ardeth Bey's ministrations. "I went to your hotel, Jonathan, and the safragi said you'd gone out earlier. He described what you were wearing. I thought you might wish an interpreter," He smiles with a warmth that dazes Jonathan, "so I made my way to the souk and came along just in time to see you pull down Abdullah's awning."

"You came looking for me?" Jonathan asks, hushed. Ardeth wraps the dampened cloth around his scraped knuckles, holding the damaged hand gently between his own. He nods. His eyes are dark amber in the mid-morning light, and Jonathan can't look away from them. This time, when their lips meet, Jonathan returns the kiss.

This is no hasty, stolen kiss; he offers his mouth to the other man without reservation. He leans into Ardeth's embrace, reassured by the Medjai's sheer size and solidity. When they draw apart to face one another, both gasping slightly for breath, Jonathan realizes that Ardeth's arms are around his waist, holding him close. His own hands, he is chagrinned to discover, have knotted themselves in the folds of Ardeth's tunic. Like that night in the oasis, Jonathan is aroused, but this morning, he's aware that he isn't the only one. The firm body pressing against his sports a hard ridge that strains against the coarse fabric, and he yields to the desire for more, hips swaying.

"Let's go inside," suggests Ardeth Bey. The tone of his voice suggests more than a simple wish to avoid the heat.

The large house is shadowy and grander than anything Jonathan had envisioned for Ardeth. They make their way through the elegant residence, past an impressive library. Now he knows where Ardeth gets all this stuff about, "It is written..." ---he glimpses gilt-edged books and scrolls, sheaves of parchment and stone tablets. There are museum-quality antiquities displayed throughout the magnificently appointed rooms, and Jonathan feels his heart sink a bit. He's imagined Ardeth as living in a tent out in the desert somewhere, not amid such splendor. While he has to admit that this is all very beautiful---certainly on a par with his sister's manor house---it makes Jonathan feel more like a poor relation than ever.

The most astonishing thing the the chamber Ardeth leads him into, an expanse of vivid silk strewn with pillows and only a few niches in the wall for candles and trinkets. Underfoot, the surface is cushioned---it's wall-to-wall bed. The air itself is perfumed, and Jonathan feels light-headed. As Ardeth begins to disrobe him, he reaches out, clumsy with the unfamiliar garments as he tugs at the other man's sash. Shrugging his way out from under the robe as Ardeth lifts it from him, feeling hands grazing his ribcage, there is a sense of being freed from the perpetual demands of keeping a stiff upper lip.

Something is stiff, alright, but it's quite a bit lower than that... This isn't supposed to happen, isn't supposed to feel so good... Skin meets skin; there's no difference, he thinks hazily. Surely, if the room was in darkness, he couldn't tell if the hand caressing his back belonged to a man or a woman. He wouldn't know whether the mouth fastening itself greedily to his left nipple is European or native...Jonathan groans as Ardeth's cock duels with his own. There have been all manner of fast women in his life, but he's never felt such breathless anticipation with any of them.

The silk is cool and slippery against his back. Ardeth covers him, warm, knowledgeable...his fingers skim the planes of Jonathan's torso, awakening responses that make the Englishman gasp. Wiry hairs tickle Jonathan's belly as Ardeth leans close to kiss him again and again. As he moans into Ardeth's mouth, Jonathan reaches down, guiding his hand to the rigid shafts of flesh between their yearning bodies. As he does so, the other man's hand finds his, and their fingers mesh. A palm on top, another underneath...he shudders at the exquisite pressure, cocks sliding together, side by side in the clasped hands.

To his surprise, it's Ardeth who achieves release first, a gutteral cry issuing from the bottom of his lungs, hot seed spurting forth to splash Jonathan's stomach and chest. With his free hand, Ardeth smears the sticky fluid upon his lover's torso, as if doing so will brand Jonathan as his.

When he's done that, Ardeth peels Jonathan's hand away from their penises, his own hands going to work on the other man's straining erection. Jonathan's eyes are rolling back in his head...it's amazing...it's perfect...sweet, swift friction...and when he thinks it can't possibly get any better than this, the moist heat of Ardeth's mouth engulfs him, tongue flicking like a cobra and the subtle tension of his lips compressing the shaft and it's too much. His balls give up their load and Jonathan cries out, back arching, pleasure crashing over him like a wave.

Ardeth is studying him, he realizes when he can think clearly again. The Medjai's dark gaze makes Jonathan acutely aware of how naked he is...how naked they both are. Is this when we both get struck by lightning? the Englishman wonders, limbs leaden with post-orgasmic fatigue. It's as if he's been liberated from every stuffy convention that's dictated what he should or shouldn't do. He's done just something taboo, he ought to be ashamed---but all he knows is, right now he's never felt more at peace.

"I must say, Ardeth," Jonathan drawls when he's caught his breath. "I like your idea of hospitality."


	4. Hard to Read

For Lucky Fannah---she knows why!

* * *

There are books and scraps of parchment strewn across the big desk in the library, and Ardeth Bey has begun setting aside things he thinks he ought to show the Most Esteemed Chronicler of the Medjai. He chides himself for lapses in his concentation; much of the past twenty-four hours has passed in...companionship with Jonathan---who's now slumbering in the big bed chamber---and it's difficult to remind himself of his sacred duties when his body reminds him of how much he's enjoyed those hours.

It surprised him, that the Englishman acceded so willingly to his seduction. So easily, in fact, that Ardeth is loathe to call it seduction. He'd responded with passion, although, the Medjai cautions himself, some of his fervor might have been sparked by the earlier encounter in the souk. He's known other individuals who became aroused by danger, and it may be that Jonathan is one of these. He dares not allow himself to become too attached to Jonathan Carnahan. It may be that the other man is merely curious about forbidden pleasures, and Ardeth is but a convenient way to experiment with the taboo, far from his homeland and the rules of his culture.

The word "curse" catches his eye on the papyrus scrap in his hand, and he looks more closely at it. No, a merchant is cursing the camels of a trader who sold him some poorly-dyed cloth. Amusing, but nothing to trouble the Most Esteemed Chronicler.

He stands holding the ancient complaint, his mind wandering again. He yearns to abandon his task and return to the sumptuous sleeping chamber...and Jonathan. Rebuking himself, Ardeth tries to banish the memory of Jonathan's oh-so-blue eyes and that boyish grin, or his fervent kisses. With a muttered oath that puts the merchant's maledictions to shame, he realizes that his cock is again stiffening within his pants.

It has been too long since he last took a lover, that's all. The same can be said for Carnahan, no doubt. And yet---he recalls the expression of contentment on the other man's face after their most recent...interlude. Somehow, he'd wound up with Jonathan's head pillowed against his ribcage, the two of them at right angles to each other, and without prompting, Jonathan began to recount what happened after Ardeth had left him and the O'Connells at Ahm Shere...of how his sister had been murdered, and the terrible, long day of vigil beside her body. All the things that had gone through his mind---the loss of her, the probable loss of his own life, and all the opportunities he'd let slip through his fingers---his expression as he glanced toward Ardeth just then was sorrowful and full of longing, not at all the gleeful prankster he's shown at other times.

"This is not helping," Ardeth says aloud. Dwelling on the kisses and caresses they'd exchanged does nothing to quell his rising desire. As well to try not to think of a camel's left knee! It's all he _can _think about...Jonathan's mouth inquisitively pressing against his nipples, Jonathan's hand stroking his cock...

With gritted teeth, he sets down the papyrus and selects another. The writer claims to be able to summon the servants of Bast and make them do his bidding. Or perhaps her bidding, there's nothing to identify the scribe---many of the temple priests for that Goddess were women. Such information will interest the Most Esteemed Chronicler. If, Heaven forbid, the Creature rises again, that ability would play upon its horror of cats---a very useful thing.

The thought of cats calls to mind an image of Jonathan stretching lazily, tawny-pink flesh arching upon the silken cushions. Quite lithe...and so compact. Jonathan's head just comes up to Ardeth's chin, but he's put together so elegantly...

No, he will _not _forsake his duty for the sake of the flesh. Delightful flesh, his body reminds him traitorously. Although they haven't yet passed through the gate into the temple of ultimate pleasure...Jonathan's not ready for that, he's still too reserved...the Medjai clenches his fists. This is intolerable, he's already spent hours on end sating his lusts, and even now they continue to plague him! There is much here to be sifted through, this idleness must cease.

The next scrap he looks at is barely legible; he studies it closely. A traveler...from a far-off land... He squints at the faded pigment. Something about the roaring of lions...an evil something something...terrible teeth? terrible claws?...is the next symbol 'locusts', or 'run away'? From the context, probably the latter.

"Hello," says Jonathan from the doorway, and Ardeth looks up from the manuscript. Fortunately, the other man has clothes on. The Englishman saunters into the library, glancing around the room with appreciation. "This is really something. My word, what a lot of stuff you've got...Evie would go mad to see all this."

"What does this look like to you?" the Medjai asks, pointing to the smudged glyph as Jonathan ambles over to the desk.

Jonathan takes the parchment gingerly and looks at it...brings it closer to his face, his eyes crinkling. Ardeth drags his attention from the endearing notch that appears between Jonathan's eyebrows and attempts not to notice the way his lips purse as he concentrates. "Something about 'run to the sunrise...'" He holds it closer to the lamp. "...and fear the One who hunts by night..." He translates it into Egyptian, and his accent gives charm to the ancient words.

"You're quite the scholar," Ardeth breathes, fighting an urge to pin the other man back against the desk and nuzzle that tender place on the side of his neck.

"Me? No, Evie's the clever one." His shrug dismisses the compliment, but Carnahan looks pleased nevertheless. "I've picked a bit up from her, and here and there."

"I'd like your help---and hers, if you think she'd give it. There are a great many things here that I can't read...either they're almost indecipherable, or I simply don't understand them. And they could be crucial in preventing further...manifestations."

"Of course I'll help, I'd be glad to. Can't speak for my sister, but I'm sure if she got a look at all this...it could take months, though, and the boat leaves on Saturday...what's today?"

"Today is Wednesday," the Medjai reminds him, although he has to think about it for a moment. At that moment, his stomach rumbles loudly, and Ardeth becomes aware that all either of them have eaten since yesterday has been oranges growing in the courtyard. The chamber was frangrant with the perfume of the peels, and they fed one another little sunny crescents of sweetness, kissing away the juice. He may never see an orange again without thinking of Jonathan Carnahan.

"I suggest we go get something to eat and call on your family." proposes Ardeth, doing his best to sound unconcerned.

"Splendid notion!" Jonathan says with a grin. His eyes meet Ardeth's for an instant, and as the Englishman glances away, Ardeth realizes that he's shy...or is he ashamed of what they've been doing and trying to put a good face on it? Perhaps he'll be glad to leave. He's not sure which piece of news devastates him more---the size of the task in front of him, or the thought of losing Jonathan in a few days' time.


	5. The Booth in the Back

Rick O'Connell has been searching for his brother-in-law for hours. So Jonathan stayed out overnight, so what? He's a grown man, he ought to be able to take care of himself. That's the idea, anyway. If it was up to him, Jonathan would be on his own, but Evie's worried.

The thing is, he came so close to losing Evie forever just a few days ago, that if she wants him to trail around Cairo looking for the big nuisance, well, guess what? He's been going from one hole-in-the-wall tavern to another, all day long, not to mention hunting through restaurants, brothels and an opium den. So far, he's been threatened four times by people who either don't like him or don't like Jonathan, he's had hot coffee spilled all over him, and been groped embarassingly by a heavily veiled figure he didn't deck only because he was _pretty sure_ it was female.

His temper is fraying. He doesn't really expect to find Jonathan in the next place he goes into---it caters to men with a taste for decadence---but it might be good for a fight. Maybe if he gets it out of his system now, he won't punch his brother-in-law's face in when he finally finds him.

The air is hazy with smoke---tobacco and hashish---and it's the same kind of tawdry dive Rick remembers from the days when one of his contacts in the weapons trade insisted on using it as a meeting place. Some of the half-naked dancers on the rickety stage are boys not much older than Alex, and the amorous couples in the booths and at the tables are all men.

As he proceeds methodically along the left side of the room toward the back, O'Connell is coming to a slow boil. Watching these perverts flirt with each other and make lewd catcalls to the boys on stage gives him a strong desire to hit somebody---a lot of somebodies. Why would any self-respecting---?

Wait a minute. That can't, possibly, be Ardeth Bey sitting in that booth in the back? Ardeth? In a joint like this? Well, maybe he's meeting someone here on business. Sometimes you've got to make your source happy. He moves toward the booth, figuring he can always spread the word about Jonathan, maybe let him know how the rest of the mess with the Scorpion King went down---

Rick stops dead in his tracks. The other man in the booth with Ardeth _is _Jonathan. He's smiling, and very animated, his hands gesturing as he looks at Ardeth, and Rick just _knows _that his brother-in-law is trying to pitch some crackpot scheme. Good grief, doesn't he ever give it a rest?

Whatever he's blabbering about, the Medjai is listening attentively. Well, the guy has class, Rick has to give him that. He's nodding like he actually gives a damn about whatever Jonathan is going on about...then, he smiles. To Rick's complete and total astonishment, he takes a piece of fruit from one of the platters in front of them and feeds it to Jonathan, who doesn't seem at all surprised by the gesture. He nibbles it delicately, then Rick would swear he sees Jonathan lick Ardeth's fingers.

It must be the smoke from the hashish, Rick thinks, staring at the scene in the booth. He's seeing things. That's the only explaination to account for the fact that the Medjai then strokes Jonathan's cheek and says something that makes his brother-in-law blush.

Just then, some misguided idiot puts a hand on Rick's backside, and the American is relieved to be able to turn around and deck him. The freak in the green robe topples like a tree, onto the table behind him, which sends the other three to their feet and lashing out at the interruption. The nearest one takes a swing at him--Rick dodges it as a plateful of god-knows-what smacks into his face, hurled by the next-nearest guy. He manages to catch the plate, shaking his head and trying to get whatever it is that smells like garlic out of his eyes. Going more by a blur of movement than anything else, he breaks the plate over somebody's head.

He hears brisk betting on the action, one crazy Inglizi against the three local boys. (Long odds on the crazy man.) Somebody---who also smells like garlic---grabs him, so Rick has a fix on where the damned fool is. He throws himself forward in a headbutt, and his skull comes into contact with something that yields. The action also shakes the worst of the glop from his face so he can see who he's fighting. The one he just headbutted has his hands over his nose. There's blood seeping from between his fingers, and he's backing away.

The one with shards of crockery on his headdress and robes looks cross-eyed; it's easy to punch him in the mouth and bounce him off his other friend. The third guy is knocked backwards, and trips over the man in the green robes who started it all, and they both wind up in a heap. Dusting his hands off after the last fool has fallen, Rick gives one of the waiters a handful of coins, enough to pay for the mess. He stalks over to the booth, where both men have been watching his antics, and fixes his brother-in-law with the evil eye. "Evie sent me to find you," he says from between clenched teeth.

"Did she? Well, it so happens that we're headed over to the hotel just as soon as we're finished here---"

"Would you care to join us?" Ardeth invites him.

Would he care to---? "No, I'm going to go let Evie know you're all right." He inspects Ardeth, who seems as calm and civilized as always. Yeah, it had to be the smoke. "Make sure he gets there in one piece, will you?" And he gets the hell out of there just in case he might start seeing things again.

During the long walk back to the hotel, Rick O'Connell tries to figure out if he really saw what he thought he saw. Either it was a hallucination, or it was some kind of joke. Maybe they saw him enter, and decided while he was working his way across the room that it would be funny to pull his leg. Jonathan was probably a court jester in a past life---Rick's just surprised that he got Ardeth Bey to go along with it. It's probably better if he just ignores the whole thing.

"I found him, Evie, he's okay," he reassures his wife as he trudges into their suite at Sheppard's Hotel. She's in front of the mirror, brushing out her hair, a nightly ritual. It's later than he realized.

"Where is he?" she wants to know. The silver-backed brush in her hand stills, and she glances around as if she could've missed someone else coming in with him.

"He'll be here in a little while." He hesitates. Nah, there's no point in telling her what he's been wrestling with for the last hour. "He and Ardeth ran into each other and they were having dinner when I found them. They said they'd be by when they were done."

There's a look of suspicion on Evie's pretty face. They've been married long enough that she knows when he's holding out on her. "And?"

Well, she's not going to like what he's about to say, but it's the truth, and it's still not as bad as the part he's leaving out. "Sweetheart, I've spent the whole day trekking around Cairo looking for your brother in every low-life snake pit in town. I've had knives waved in my face, punched out four guys and I'm still woozy from all the smoke I've been inhaling---and I don't mean cigars. I'm wearing somebody's dinner on my shirt and I smell like a camel's stall. I'm tired, and my feet hurt, and for what? Jonathan? The only reason I put up with him is for you."

* * *


	6. Indebted By Dreams

Evie Carnahan O'Connell gazes at her husband for a moment, then tosses the brush into the vanity top and gets to her feet. "You wouldn't have met me if it wasn't for Jonathan!" she reminds him sharply. She stands in front of Rick, glaring up at him---at moments like this, it's intolerable that he's so tall!---and taps her foot indignantly. Tap-tap-tap, glare. The shoes pinch her feet, which doesn't improve her temper.

"You mean if he hadn't picked my pocket?" Rick retorts. It's a bit hard to maintain her indignation when he's right about something like that. He does look awfully weary. There's a scrape on his jaw, and that shirt is going to be binned as soon as she can get it off of him, because it's torn and it reeks. What's that on his face..?

"It was only that one time," she protests, compressing her lips and trying to act as if his blue eyes don't beckon her as much as they did the day they met...thanks to her older brother's acquisitive habits. She begins unbuttoning the ruined garment. Two of the buttons are missing. "And it did work out for the best." Evie gives him a searching look, but her husband seems miles away. "Rick, you just don't understand Jonathan."

"You're right about that." This time his tone is less belligerent, and she pulls the shirt free of his trousers, unfastening the remaining buttons.

"He changed a lot after our parents died. I was still in the nursery, but I remember how good he was, and how helpful. Papa taught him to ride, and Mama called him her brave young knight. Then they were killed in a railway accident and we had to go to live with Uncle Barnaby and Aunt Agnes. I wasn't quite six, and he was fourteen."

"You don't have to---" Rick begins awkwardly. She brushes at his face with the tail of his shirt, but soon realizes the futilty of it.

"Yes, I _do_. You don't understand how much I owe Jonathan---how much you owe him!" He's usually as reasonable as any man is, but tonight Rick annoys her with his attitude. "We never would've come to Egypt if it wasn't for Jonathan. Uncle Barnaby---he's a horrible, horrible person. He said the most disgusting things about Jonathan, and kept trying to get him to shoot things to prove what a man he was."

Rick's mouth moves for a moment, and she waits to see whether he's going to be sleeping on the sofa tonight, she's that miffed. "Jonathan's not a bad shot," he says cautiously.

"He learned out of self-defense, but he never shot more than dinner's worth. He said hunting for sport is barbaric, and Uncle Barnaby was scathing about that. Said he was a pantywaist and he'd probably be over-mounted on a hobby-horse. Of course, you know Jonathan rides like a centaur." Rick doesn't disagree with this, either, luckily for him. Evie extends her hand and runs her fingers from Rick's throat down to the waist of his pants. She guides him in the direction of the sink by a pinkie hooked through one of his belt loops.

Picking up the sponge, she dampens it and starts daubing at the dried food and abrasions on his face. "There was a clause in our father's will that Jonathan would go to university, and in return, Uncle Barnaby got the remainder of the estate---what was left over after the funeral expenses were paid and Jonathan's education was taken care of. As soon as Jonathan finished school, Uncle wanted him to go into his business---he owns a foundry where they make chain."

"I have a hard time picturing that," Rick says. He's more relaxed now, as she wipes his skin with cool water.

"He lasted for four months. He and Uncle argued all the time about the working conditions there. Then he saw one of the men die, caught in some machinery---he wouldn't tell me about it, but he and Uncle Barnaby had the most dreadful row, afterward. I'll never forget it. I was just fifteen, and Jonathan came into my room and told me to pack up my things, that we were going away forever.

"We wound up in London during the war, and Jonathan got a job loading ships. It was rough work, but we needed the money. I begged him to find something that would make use of his education, but he said he wasn't afraid of an honest day's work."

"Jonathan?"

Evie ignores the note of disbelief in her husband's tone. "He said he was going to take care of me and see to it that I got a proper education. Then, just as the Armistice was signed, he caught the influenza, and I was frantic." She stops, a lump in her throat even now, almost twenty years later. Evie blots her tearful face with the sponge, grimaces, and rises it out.

"I remember the epidemic," Rick says slowly as she impatiently brushes away a tear. "My adopted parents died within a week of each other. But Jonathan pulled through, obviously."

"He lost his job while he was ill, but that turned out to be a good thing, because then he got a position with Cook's as a ticketing agent---you know, the steamship company? He did that all day and was a waiter in the evenings and did all sorts of odd jobs at weekends to keep me in school. He said I wasn't to try to work, just study. I graduated with honours, and got references from my professors and some of the scholars I'd met while doing research. I wanted to come to Egypt more than anything, so he got us both tickets---because he said he didn't dare let me travel alone." Evie smiles at such brotherly protectiveness.

"I was soon taken on in the library at the Museum of Antiquities, and then...Jonathan just let go and drifted...drinking and gambling and not even trying to hold down a job. It was as if he'd put all his energy into getting me what I wanted, and he didn't have anything left to pursue his own dreams with. Or maybe he didn't have any dreams of his own because mine were so big." Her lower lip trembles a bit, but she pastes on a brave smile as she gives Rick's ribcage a last swabbing. "So you see, if not for Jonathan, I never would have come to Egypt. I'd be lucky to be a dried-up old spinster with six cats, working in a back room at the British Museum and talking to myself."

"What do you mean, you'd be lucky?"

"Uncle Barnaby was planning to marry me off at sixteen to a crony of his, Sir Montague Tomlinson. He was a nasty old boor with yellow teeth, and he and Uncle would sit around drinking whiskey and smoking cigars, and he used to pinch my bottom if I got too close. The parlormaids were terrified of them both."

"Remind me to punch your uncle in the mouth if I ever meet him," Rick says with a frown. "And this Montague guy, too. Okay, I take your point. If it wasn't for Jonathan, we wouldn't be together. I just wish he'd grow up."

Evie smiles sadly as she hands him a clean shirt. "So do I. Sometimes, I think he used up his lifetime's supply of maturity during those years when he took responsibility for everything."

"So, I almost lost you to an old guy with yellow teeth, huh?" He reaches out and tweaks her chin with a blunt finger. Rick's trying to be playful, to jolly her out of the mournful mood she's in, and Evie feels a wave of affection for her husband.

"It wouldn't have been so bad if they'd been trying to match me up with his son---Ambrose was a couple of years older than Jonathan, and I must confess that when I was thirteen or so, I rather fancied him."

"Oh, you did, did you?" Rick is trying to sound stern, but she sees the corner of his mouth twitching. "What was so special about him? Weren't you afraid he'd wind up with yellow teeth like his father?"

"Well, let me think," Evie affects a pose of thought, tapping her booted foot against the Persian carpet. "He was very tall..." She leans closer to Rick, looking up at him. "...and he had broad shoulders..." She rests her palms on his shoulders. "...and the bluest eyes..." She flutters her lashes coyly and is rewarded as she hoped.

With a little growl, Rick's arms encircle her and he lowers his mouth to hers for a lengthy kiss. "What else?" he asks her when they come up for breath.

"What else what?" She's thinking it's just as well Rick hasn't gotten that new shirt buttoned yet, and why did she ever think he'd need one?

There's a knock on the door.

"Gee," says Rick, with a sigh. "I wonder who that could be."


	7. Formalities

The suite the O'Connells have in Sheppard's Hotel is well-appointed. Everything is elegant, tasteful, expensive. Jonathan Carnahan sighs to himself as he and Ardeth enter. He hates it here, but Rick and Evie are paying for it all, so he's stuck with it. He actually had to argue with the imbecile at the front desk for Ardeth to be allowed entrance. Bloody European snobbery...

Evie gets a hug and kiss on the cheek---Jonathan hasn't stopped being thankful that she's alive, after the previous week's events---and Ardeth bows over her hand. Rick stands there in a half-buttoned shirt, cleaner than the one he was last seen in, and Jonathan has an uneasy feeling that his brother-in-law may have witnessed something between him and Ardeth, because he looks grimmer than usual.

Standing on the fringes of the group, Jonathan listens quietly as Rick recounts his version of the final battle with the Scorpion King, and details Imhotep's fate. Ardeth is intent on the story, asking question after question, clarifying points that Jonathan's told him. How can anyone be prejudiced against him simply because he's Egyptian? Listen to him talk for five minutes---hell, just look at the light of intelligence in his eyes. Smarter than that damned concierge, that's for certain...

The trouble is...Ardeth is making a point, and Jonathan's gaze is drawn to the other man's noble visage...the trouble is, he can hardly think straight around the Medjai. Just enough to feel apprehension, to have the sinking feeling that he's not good enough, that he's out-classed. It's bad enough that he's reduced to living off the charity of his baby sister and the ruffian she's married to; he really doesn't want to be Ardeth's kept boy, as it were, even if the cage is a damned luxurious one.

Thinking of tumbling about on silken cushions with Ardeth brings an unguarded smile to Jonathan's face. The Medjai is as fearless in this arena as he is in every other---whereas, it's taken a lot of courage for Jonathan to show how he feels...in fact, he's not sure how he feels...he's been with plenty of women, but even the most successful encounters were lacking, somehow. With Ardeth, it's comfortable. There's no need to instruct him in what feels good. By the same token, Jonathan knows what to do with a penis---this one just happens to be attached to someone else, which makes it an erotic novelty.

One of the useful things about the native robe that he's wearing over his trousers: it conceals the fact that Jonathan is erect just from picturing Ardeth in bed with him. The Medjai is much taller than Jonathan, and is a good deal more muscular as well. It makes it that much easier to surrender to him, to let his strong hands caress Jonathan's paler flesh, to look up at him and feel overwhelmed. And yet, it doesn't bring back memories of having been harassed at school...there's nothing of the bully about Ardeth. Ardeth makes him feel as if---

"Jonathan!" By Evie's expression, and the way the others are staring at him, it isn't the first time his name's been called.

"Sorry, I was...er, distracted." It's a good thing Rick can't read minds; he's already looking at Jonathan suspiciously.

"I said, how big is this library?" Evie sounds less sharp, and her brother tries to remember the proportions of a room he scarcely noticed in his preoccupation with its other occupant.

"Easily as big as this parlor and my bedroom together, with shelves al the way round, from about knee-high, almost to the ceiling. Higher ceilings than this, but not all the shelves are filled. There are a lot of scrolls and stone tablets, which take up more room than books, and some of the papyrus fragments are pressed between glass..." Jonathan shrugs.

"And no filing sytem that we know of," Evie sighs. "It's going to be quite a job, but we can pitch in for a couple of days." She smiles at Ardeth, and Jonathan feels a pang of...it can't be jealousy, that would be completely absurd.

"Wait until you see it, Evie," says Jonathan, trying to erase that spasm of pique. "It's a really choice collection." Too late, he realizes how mercenary that sounds.

"Bring them around in the morning," Ardeth says to him, and his heart sinks. It's perfectly logical; he can guide the others there, no need to come to the hotel to pick them up in the morning...but it also means he'll be sleeping alone.

"Let me walk you out," Jonathan says, wanting to salvage something. "In case that idiot at the desk gets snotty again."

The O'Connell's suite just happens to be closer to the back stairs, and Jonathan guides them that way for privacy. "Ardeth," he begins as they trot down the stairs. The Medjai stops and looks back at him--he's two steps lower than Jonathan, who takes one more step down, and finds himself at eye level with the other man. With scant difference in height between them, it's not difficult at all for him to kiss Ardeth.

"I wish I could be with you tonight," Jonathan says, his voice husky. He's going to be aching tonight; abusing himself is no substitute for a flesh-and-blood lover.

"Then neither of us would get any sleep," replies Ardeth, with a suppressed yawn. "You've worn me out, you mad Englishman. I may never get over it." But his dark eyes are smiling, so maybe he doesn't think Jonathan is after him for his money and his wonderful antiquities. Right now, the only treasure Jonathan wants is the one standing in front of him.

* * *

A/N --- All I'm gonna say is -- Jonathan, you really _should _have paid more attention to that conversation. 


	8. A Deeper Acquaintance

Thanks, everyone, for your patience with the lengthy intervals between postings. I've just started a new job, and it's taking a lot out of me, so updates are probably going to be even more sporadic. Sorry about that! Real life happens.

* * *

When Jonathan troops in the following morning with the O'Connells, Ardeth greets them all and offers hospitality; it's early enough that they probably haven't had time for much, if any, breakfast. He didn't sleep well alone, and rose earlier than usual for prayers and a fast visit to the marketplace, because there was no food in the house.

Young Alex, whom he's barely seen, save for that wild bus ride, candidly admits that Uncle Jonathan hustled them out of their beds and out of the hotel so fast that they haven't even had the smell of breakfast in passing. Ardeth grins as the older O'Connells roll their eyes, and Jonathan Carnahan seems embarassed.

"We only have two days," Jonathan protests, looking flustered. "Plenty of time for everyone to rest onboard ship."

The pastry turns to ash in Ardeth's mouth. Only two more days of Jonathan's smiles, of his playful good nature and bright blue eyes. Only two days with people who have a better chance than he of unlocking the mysteries the library contains, he reminds himself sternly. His duties as a Medjai should---must---take precedence over the desires of his heart.

Escorting his new helpers into the sanctum of knowledge, he watches their reactions. Rick doesn't look too impressed, but he's no scholar. Evie is wide-eyed, her lips parted as she gazes around the room in awe.

Alex is less inhibited. "Wow!" he blurts. "Look at all this stuff! It's better than your library at home, Mom! Bet you wish there was room in your trunk for some of this!"

"Alex!" his mother remonstrates. "That's no way to talk. Sorry, Ardeth."

Ardeth Bey waves away her apology. Alex is probably much like Jonathan was as a small boy, he thinks. There are few things children dislike more than being talked around, or talked down to by adults, so Ardeth addresses the boy directly. "Perhaps while your mother and Jonathan are looking through the records, you and your father could help me with another small matter."

The child looks disappointed. "I wanted to see the library, too," he says. "I can read hieroglyphs, you know." Clever and forthright, with hair like sunbeams...

"This will only take a couple of hours," promises Ardeth, "and it would be a great help to me."

"Sure, we'll help." Rick overrules his son, sounding relieved. "What do you need?"

What Ardeth needs requires a long walk out of town, Alex makes most of the trip riding on his father's shoulders, and commenting on the things he can see from his superior vantage point. He's observant and curious, and reminds the Medjai very much of his uncle.

This is one of very few times he's spent with the elder O'Connell that they haven't been fighting for their lives, and while Ardeth already knows that Rick is a good man to have on your side in a fight, it remains to be seen whether he's someone he'd want to be friends with during peacetime. They talk of commonplace things as they walk: O'Connell is surprised to find out that the Medjai has three younger siblings that he's close to---two sisters and a brother. Ardeth learns that his companion fled America and joined the Foreign Legion after killing a man in a brawl.

O'Connell is properly somber when he recounts this; Alex is stretching his legs, and walking a little ahead of them. "I was in a saloon in Boston; some crazy drunk came at me with a knife because I said something he didn't like about giving women the vote." Rick scowls at the memory. "I was young and hot-tempered---I was only twenty---and I'd had a few snorts myself. I broke a bottle against the bar and swung on the guy---ripped his neck open, and he bled to death in minutes, maybe not even that long."

"Certainly you'd have to defend yourself under those circumstances. How could a judge argue with that?"

"Judge?" Rick snorts. "I knew from some of the stuff he'd been saying that he was connected. Well, maybe it was a lot of malarkey, but I wasn't gonna take the chance. I took off outta there and got onto the first steamship headed abroad---I ended up in Marsailles, and figured the Legion was a good way to see the world."

Thinking of their battles with the creature and their adventures in Ahm Shere, Ardeth nods. "Yes, you've seen a great many extraordinary things of this world and the next."

Rick pauses for a moment, glances to where Alex is strolling along a few yards distant, and back to Ardeth. "I saw something pretty incredible last night," he says, lowering his voice. "What the hell were you and Jonathan doing in that---that den of iniquity last night?"

"Having dinner," replies the Medjai without so much as the flicker of an eye to betray that he suspects what O'Connell is getting at. "The owner of the establishment is the younger brother of my sister's husband. The food is good, and I'm always made welcome."

The expression of disgust on the American's face makes it clear that he's not going to let the issue die, and his next words confirm it. "What about those boys on stage?" he demands. "Tell me what kids that young are doing in a place like that!"

"My friend," Ardeth says, choosing his words carefully, "this is Egypt. There is great poverty, and many children are born daily whose parents cannot provide for them. Where you come from, there are institutions for children without families, and organizations to help them. Here, their options are fewer. Children far younger than those boys work at hard labor in the fields...and on the streets.

"My sister's brother-in-law is a generous man. The boys that Faisel employs are given meals and a place to sleep, and a little money, so that they do not need to sell themselves. Some do, regardless, because they have families they wish to aid, or because they are ambitious. They may become companions to wealthy older men---they live in luxury and earn enough that, in a few years, they can begin in business themselves. I can see from your face that you don't care for the idea---"

"That's sickening." O'Connell says through his teeth.

"I've seen many worse things." Ardeth is grave, painful memories a heartache. "There are far too many people who regard any child not old enough to fight back as nothing more than a small animal, of no value save for the work it can do. They're beaten, starved and used to satisfy the basest lusts, dying without ever knowing a shred of human compassion. Dancing for an appreciative audience and being treated with dignity is more than hundreds of children in this city can hope for."

O'Connell looks as if he's about to respond, when Alex turns around to look at them. "Are we there yet?"


	9. Speaking of Gods

I wrote this a while ago, but got ever so busy with Real Life and never got it posted. It's peculiarly appropiate to the Season, though; hope you enjoy it. Peace on Earth, goodwill to all...

---9---

This is kind of fun, Alex O'Connell thinks dubiously as he perches atop the donkey. His dad seems to be enjoying the ride, but then, he and Mr. Bey are on horses. Between them, there are four donkeys on a rope, that Mr. Bey needs for some reason. He sighs. It was a long walk out to where the man with the donkeys was, and he's hungry again. Really, he'd much rather be investigating the contents of that awesome library with his mum and Uncle Jon.

"Isn't this great?" his dad bellows to him.

"Yeah, Dad---great!" Alex lies with a fake cheerful smile. He doesn't want to disappoint his dad; and really, it _is _better than being dragged across two continents in mortal peril, which was his situation just a couple weeks ago. It's better than England, where it's rainy much too often for his taste. (Although, there aren't many trees to climb in Egypt). But he'd rather ride Soot, his pony at home, than this dumb donkey, plodding along with the rest of the dumb donkeys and listen to boring grown-up conversation.

"You are mistaken," Mr. Bey is saying to his father. "For two hundred generations, my fathers have protected the world from the Creature. We know the power of gods whose temples were old long before the cathedrals and minarets arose."

"So that's who you really worship? The old Egyptian gods?" His dad sounds skeptical.

"You are missing the point," says their friend. "Knowing that some gods have power, how can I discount the possibility that other gods may have power as well? You have seen with your own eyes many wonderful, fearful things."

Alex nods to himself; there were those terrible hours when his mother was dead---and the wonderful moment when she arose---and the prayer that brought her back wasn't something out of his Sunday school primer.

"A man's belief in whatever God he finds Truth in is a very personal matter. Even among men who profess a similar creed, there is a great diversity in how they interpret individual scriptures. Many are selective about which teachings they find most useful---it is in their nature to deny those prohibitions which are inconvenient to them. What is acceptable to one faith may be anathema to another. You enjoy fermented spirits? Ham sandwiches? Some will call you an infidel for such things. Or perhaps you carry a saint's medal, or prayer beads---there are people in your own culture who would quarrel with you for those practices."

There's an Irish boy who's at school with Alex, and he talks about things like that sometimes. About leaving people alone to worship Whoever they want. It's not worth killing people over, Rory says, and God probably considers it an insult in the long run.

"I don't think it's anybody's business," he says out loud.

Mr. Bey glances over at him. "What are your thoughts, Alex?" he asks, as if Alex is as grown-up as they are.

"Well, there are a lot of different gods, right? And it's like, they're good at different things. So if people pray to a bunch of them, there's a better chance of having one of them help out."

"You're saying that gods exist only to be asked favors of? I'm not sure that all of them would appreciate that view of it."

That wasn't what Alex meant, but he sees how it might have come out sounding that way. He looks over at his dad, who just grins at him. He's in the hot seat now! Alex concentrates on the idea for a moment, and the Medjai doesn't rush him.

"Look at my dad," he says after a little while. "He's got a pistol and a rifle and a knife. It would be stupid to try to cut a piece of bread with a pistol, but he can shoot something with the rifle from a lot farther away than he could ever throw his knife. And it's not like he uses them all every day, but even when he doesn't, he takes care of them, because otherwise, they won't work when he needs them."

"Treating your tools with respect is just good sense, Alex," his dad says.

"You're on the right track, though," Mr. Bey tells him. "Respect for deities---whether or not you have a rapport with them---is essential. I may not agree with another man's beliefs, but arguing against him would be pointless. In the final judgement, each man will have to answer for his own choices, and I believe that he will be shown as much tolerance as he has shown to his fellow man."

They're getting near to the fancy villa, and Alex looks forward to lunch, and a chance to look around that library. His dad is talking about the Golden Rule---doing for others what you'd want them to do for you---and the boy reckons that means making a pot of tea and a plate cheese sandwiches.


End file.
